


Only Existing

by notrecielrose



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-03
Updated: 2015-09-03
Packaged: 2018-04-18 22:01:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4721993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notrecielrose/pseuds/notrecielrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything falls apart for Stiles, but even then, Chris and Peter both know how to be more than enough for him. Even in the face of heartache, they exist for love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only Existing

He shouldn’t have left, Stiles told himself with every new mile. He shouldn’t have let his dad talk him into going home for the weekend. He shouldn’t have let the warmth of Chris’ voice over the phone and the laughter of Peter in the background call to him. He should’ve known better, especially with the noticeable give in John’s eyes the night before he left. 

 

John’s health had been declining rapidly. Stiles had been staying with him for weeks, taking him to his appointments until John was finally admitted into the hospital, where Stiles rarely left his side. But he finally did. And John’s heart finally failed him, and there was nothing else to do. 

 

Stiles kept driving. He drove past the lake, with the orange smeared sky reflecting off it. Past the silhouetted trees, their leaves were just beginning to fall. He pressed his foot harder on the gas pedal even though the wind kept whipping his jeep around.

 

Stiles watched the clock. He watched the full moon. And when he heard a lone coyote on the back stretch to his hometown, he imagined Peter running alongside him. It made him feel a touch calmer. 

 

“You can’t go alone.” Chris said. Peter was behind him, pacing the entry way as Stiles fumbled for his keys next to the over-piling mail basket. 

 

“I’ll be fine.” Peter said. “I can handle this phase alone.” 

 

“You fucking can’t and you know it.” Stiles said. 

 

“He’s right.” Chris said quietly. 

 

Peter shook his head and sighed. “We’ll meet you there tomorrow.” 

 

“It’ll be fine.” 

 

“Call us when you make it.” Chris called as Stiles jumped in the jeep. 

 

As Stiles pulled into the parking garage of the local hospital, he felt his panic start to escape him. It was coming up in short bursts, pounding against his chest and slipping through his throat. 

 

“You can’t freeze.” He told himself. Stiles took a deep breath and killed the ignition. He jogged through the dark until he found the level three elevator. He hit the button, once, twice, three times, then he started slamming his knuckles into it, tears running down his face. 

 

He was wiping the blood on his jeans when the doors opened and a couple young nurses walked out. 

 

“Are you okay?” One of them asked. But Stiles just passed by them. 

 

“Sir?” The other said, as the doors closed between them. 

  
  


John was lying on his side, facing the window where the nearby city lights glared high into the sky. Stiles could see himself in the window, his dad made eye contact with his reflection. When he turned, Stiles could see him wrapped in too many wires. 

 

“Stiles.” He tried to say, but it came out as a grumbled mess. 

 

Stiles couldn’t speak. 

 

He watched as his dad held out his hand. Tears starting to line the rim of his eyes. He clasped his hand over his mouth as deep noises escaped. He sounded like he was choking. He felt like he couldn’t breathe. 

 

“t’s kay.” Stiles heard. He shook his head hard, finally reaching out for his dad. “t’s kay, t’s kay.” John kept repeating the best he could. 

 

“It’s not.” Stiles tried to say between heavy sobs. He couldn’t stop. He didn’t know how to calm himself down until felt his dad’s rough hand. 

 

John sat up, using Stiles to help him stay balanced. He took off his mask. 

 

“Dad, no.” Stiles grabbed his hand and took the mask, trying to wrap the strap back around his dad’s face. 

 

“I need to talk to you.” He said, pushing Stiles’ hand away. “Please.” 

 

Stiles dropped his head to his lap. He could feel himself start to heave with cries. His dad only laid a hand on his back, letting it rise and fall with every shake. 

 

“I’m tired of existing without your mother.” He said. 

 

“I was supposed to be here.” Stiles said into his soaked jeans. “You get that right? I should’ve been here.” 

 

“We all three should’ve been together.” John said, tapping Stiles with a trembling hand. “Take this.” 

 

Stiles looked down at his young father, his mother, himself. The three of them, flour on their noses and cheeks from baking Christmas cookies. He thought back to his mom dragging his dad into the kitchen by his shirt collar. 

 

“Put the badge up, lock the gun in the safe. It’s our time.” She said, nodding over to a small Stiles standing on a chair, trying to stir the batter. 

 

“Yes, ma’am.” He said, winking at Stiles and kissing her on her icing smudged forehead. 

 

John coughed and Stiles raised his head so fast he caused a sharp pain to shoot through his neck. 

 

“Don’t push Chris or Peter away. Don’t even for a second think you have to come back to what is left behind.” But then he started to wheeze. He clutched at his chest. He reached for his mask for a split second before changing his mind. 

 

Stiles noticed his hesitation and snatched it, but it bounced off his hand, and underneath the bed. He fell to his knees and crawled under to get it. He shoved it on his dad’s face just as a nurse walked in. 

 

“Step back.” She said, and he did. He walked into the hallway as beeps and dings sounded everywhere around him. 

 

It felt like he was in a tunnel, like time had slowed down just to echo his worst fears on repeat. 

 

“I had to put him on a morphine drip.” The nurse said, cracking the door behind her. The room was silent as if Stiles had pushed mute. He turned to look at her, her lips moving, but nothing was reaching his ears. “I’m so sorry.” She said, patting his shoulder. 

  
  


Stiles sat in the hard clothed chair. He watched the morphine take control of his dad, who laid completely unaware. 

 

“Of course.” He said outloud. “Of-fucking-course.” But he could feel the stream of tears against his heated face. He could see both his mother and his father. His mind was fighting. Memories were being pulled and thrown at him, and reality was digging it’s own corner to soon join. 

 

He pulled out his phone to reply to the 10 missed messages, 6 missed calls, and 2 voicemails. All from Chris. 

 

I’ve been busy, but i’m here he typed out, shoving it back in his pocket. 

 

The minutes ticked by, the outside lights became non existent as the sun started to peek over the buildings and trees. Pinks and purples were blanketing over the town when John sat up. He touched his knee. He looked at Stiles, and for the most fleeting of seconds, Stiles thought hope showed up after all. But then he watched his father rest his head back down and take his last breath. 

 

“No.” He cried. It was a silent cry. A cry that didn’t have to be sounded out by the flatline. “I love you.” He mouthed. Words that never made it past his lips. 

***

 

Stiles stood on the empty stairway. The sun hiding behind the clouds. He looked down to the blood pattern on his jeans. It felt like days ago already. Nothing felt right. He didn’t feel real. 

 

He opened the door to his childhood home anyway. He smelled leather and gunpowder. He looked into the front room and saw the laid out muzzleloader John asked Stiles to clean a week ago. He tried to remember the last time they went hunting, and tried to push out the fact that they didn’t get to. 

 

He kept walking, forgetting where the floor’s weak spots were. The creaks only reminded him of sneaking out to meet Scott at their drinking rock. The moans the house made with each shift of the wind only reminded him of lying in bed during late winter, hearing his dad cry into a whiskey bottle on the nights he missed too much. 

 

Stiles drug his fingers across a photo hanging on the fridge. It was of him, his dad, Chris, and Peter. It was last Christmas and they were all drunk off their asses. John talked them into digging out all his old ugly sweaters from the back of his closet. Stiles could almost smell the dust and mothballs that clung to them. 

 

Stiles was able to smile at their expressions. At Peter trying to look seductive with a pinky to his mouth. Chris’ lips planted on Stiles temple. His own dorky grin, an arm draped around his dad’s shoulders. His dad mid laugh, raising his hand to grab onto Stiles’ wrist. 

 

All of a sudden, he felt his body give. He added the photo to his pocket with the other and fell onto the couch. He remembered that was the last place his dad slept in the house by the way his lingering sweat almost overpowered the fabric softener. 

 

***

 

Stiles  woke to a knock on the door.  He was too groggy, he didn’t even realize he opened it. 

 

“Baby.” Chris said. He wrapped Stiles in his arms and Stiles collapsed. Chris held him up and walked him back to the couch. Chris’ touch made Stiles crave to be held. Peter walked around to the other side of him, lacing his fingers with Stiles. 

 

“He wasn’t okay.” Stiles said. And then there was nothing else to be said. 

 

***

 

The funeral was over. Stiles stood at the dwindling down gravesite. People only lingered because they felt they needed to. He watched as most of them stared at Chris and Peter, completely dismissing the fact that there was a death to be mourned. 

 

He stood in front of the casket until everyone left. The gravediggers stayed to themselves, giving Stiles his moment. His face was wet, it was cold. It felt like tiny daggers of ice were sticking out of his eyes and nose, only to be melted and refrozen every couple minutes. He pulled out a photo and placed it in his dad’s suit pocket. 

 

And when it was time to close the casket, he bent over in a hyperventilating pain. But he felt a hand grip his shoulder, and another rest on the small of his back. He knew who they each  belonged to, and they calmed him in their own little way. 

 

On the way home, Stiles rested his forehead against the fogged over window as Chris drove, Peter following behind. He didn’t move until they pulled into the drive. Even then, he didn’t feel the need to. But he did, only because he didn’t want Chris reaching his hand to only the wind. 

 

He sat at the bar, watching Peter twist off beer caps with the fold of his elbow and toss them into the trash. He stared at the fridge. At the top was a handwritten note from Peter. It was from just a couple days before. It said  Love you assholes. Also, don’t forget the bread this time, okay. I’m craving a french toast breakfast in bed with my gorgeous lovers. Don’t make me cuss you. 

 

Stiles walked toward it. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out the other photograph, placing it beside the note with a magnet Chris brought home from Seattle last year. As he stared at his parents, both of their arms wrapped around him and his messy apron, he wondered when he would start to tire of existing without them. 

 

But the thought was gone just as fast as it came when Chris rested his chin against Stiles’ neck. “We love you.” Chris said into his ear, and Stiles nodded. He nodded hard and squeezed his eyes shut. 

 

“Forever to John.” Peter raised his beer and placed one in each of their hands. 

 

Stiles concentrated on the clink of their bottles. He concentrated on the gulps as they drank in unison. He concentrated on his shallow breathing as he fell into both of their arms. Stiles concentrated on existing. 


End file.
